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THE BUTTERFLY
“ E verything’s Okay,” the officer says as they enter my apartment. They were pounding on all the doors of the apartment. No one was in. Only me, so I opened the door. “Get your shoes and we can go to the precinct.”
The sound of my heartbeat fills my ears. I feel my pulse racing as the tension in my muscles begins to loosen, like they’ve been wound up too tight for too long.
I know I should say something, but the words stick. I just nod, slowly, and take a step out from the corner.
“Alright,” I manage, finally meeting their eyes.
The officers are taller than me, at least six feet, maybe a little more. Their uniform is crisp, the dark blue material a sharp contrast to the soft yellow light in the living room. A badge gleams on their chest, catching the light just enough to reflect a dull shine. They don’t look like someone who’s here to hurt me, but then like my stalker who is now dead, I don’t know what to make of anyone or anything anymore.
They don’t ask any questions. They don’t need to. Their eyes seem to assess me, reading my every move. I wonder if they can tell how much I’m shaking, or if it’s just my imagination.
I find my shoes which I put under the bed, because there isn’t much closet space in this apartment. Then, I leave my apartment, the once quiet street is filled, it’s as if the murder is the entertainment for the night. I see people that I’ve never seen before, behind the barrier that the police have put up, trying to see what happened tonight.
I ignore them, but then I see flashes, phones being held, so i’ll probably be all over social media by the end of the night.
So, much for being in a witness protection program. I’m going to be in the press and everywhere else, all over again.
The car ride to the station is a blur. The world outside the squad car window moves by in a steady stream of lights and shadow. We pass through familiar neighborhoods—houses, trees, small businesses—and it feels so strange to see them now. Everything is just... normal. Just a Saturday night. But for me, nothing is normal. Not anymore.
I’m barely aware of the ride’s progression, because my thoughts are spiraling. The sound of the police radio crackles in the background, then fades, replaced by the low, constant hum of the car's engine.
The city’s pulse beats in the form of sirens and distant traffic. The air smells different here—less fresh, more polluted, a mix of concrete, exhaust, and old pizza boxes. I catch a whiff of something else, too, like rain water mixing with smog.
We’re getting closer now, the station's just a few more blocks away. The door looms ahead, and I know once I cross that threshold, I can’t turn back.
I’ve been to a police station before, and interrogated, but as Penelope never Hazel, and even worse, I’m a witness in another murder. First, it was my aunt and others, and now the cop that killed her.
It was one thing to witness a Mayor and some billionaire’s being killed, but even then I never really witnessed them. It was as if I was in the room, but my vision and capability to see their faces was limited, apart from the Mayor, the one that was so near my head at the time. The one that wanted to kiss me. I doubt they’ll be willing to put me in a witness protection program again, I bet they’ll want to throw me out with the trash, because they’ll think of me as nothing but trouble.
My case should be shut. Not wide open, not over again.
T he door shuts behind me as I step into the interrogation room. The air inside is cold, and sterile. The harsh fluorescent lights above are faint, casting sharp shadows along the tiled floor. A metal table sits in the center of the room, flanked by two chairs. I take the one closest to the wall, pulling it out slowly as though each movement is deliberate, each breath more calculated than the last.
The officer who brought me here stays by the door, leaning against it as if she’s waiting for something. She hasn’t said a word since we arrived, but she’s watching me. I’m not sure if she’s judging me or wanting to hurt me, because one of hers was killed, and he was protecting me. She stands with her arms crossed, with a hard expression. Her features are angular, almost statuesque, with a pointed nose and thin lips that barely twitch. There’s a scar along the side of her cheekbone, faint but noticeable. I wonder what caused it, but I don’t ask.
Her eyes, though… they’re the part I can’t shake. Cold, steel-blue—sharp enough to cut, steady enough to see right through me. They’re not just watching; they’re measuring me . Like she’s waiting for something, maybe for me to crack.
My body betrays me as memories start slipping through the cracks, fragments I’ve spent years trying to bury. I tell myself it’s a coincidence, and he’s not connected to any of it. But in my world, coincidence doesn’t exist.
I don’t even know if being under police protection is helping me anymore—or if it’s just made me a target all over again. It’s starting to feel like safety is a myth people tell each other to sleep at night.
Because everywhere I go, blood seems to follow.
Even here in fucking Ohio.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20 (Reading here)
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
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- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44